Evidence
by chrissie0707
Summary: S1, post-ep for "Shadow," featuring plenty of blood and brotherly concern. Dean shakes his head like he's got water in his ears instead of blood, keeps his eyes trained on the road. "I dunno, something's just buggin' me that I can't really put my finger on."


_Author Note: Another little something that came from a discarded bit from months back. I already wrote something post-"Shadow", my second attempt ever at a SPN fic back in August of 2006, but this should be read as a beast of its own, more in the vein of the stories I've been posting with teases of the multi-chap to come._

* * *

 _Evidence_

The growl and rumble of the Impala seem angrier than usual and louder than normal, like the engine's leaking oil between them on the bench seat in the otherwise quiet car as opposed to tucked away out of sight beneath the massive hood. Dean's pushing her about as hard as he ever has, lead foot to the floor, moving AWAY and doing it as quickly as possible so he can't change his mind about splitting up from Dad. The evidence of his doubt can ironically be found in his deliberate haste to put miles between them.

Sam holds a tight palm to his cheek, keeping pressure on, because he's got plenty of experience, knows your face'll bleed like a mother. There's a fierce, hot pain coming from somewhere around his left elbow, vying for his attention, but it's the trenches clawed into his face that're setting off fireworks at the edges of his peripheral vision. "I thought the Daevas had to be controlled by someone," he ventures through gritted teeth, because they've been driving in silence for a concerning amount of time and his jaw's been clenched so tightly he was likely to crack bone if he didn't speak soon.

"Yeah, me too, but the wicked witch is dead and they still came after us back there, so I don't know what the hell now." His brother's words are clipped and his voice is rough. He seems to be little more than a tense ball of a pain personified folded behind the steering wheel, and annoyed that he's been forced to talk. His forehead is laid open hairline to eyebrows from more than one cut, and there's no way that's anything less than excruciating.

Sam should give him some space and rein it in but he's never been known for biting his tongue and can't help his frustration from falling out. If Dean's going to act like he's in charge here, like he knows everything about everything, then he'd damn well better have something better than _I don't know what the hell now_. He sits back with a huff and studies the blood smear covering his hand. "You cut bad?"

Dean sniffs, drags a knuckle under his nose but is noticeably careful not to move any more than that. "Not too."

The lack of movement is a more honest answer than his words but Sam's not initially struck with the fraternal sympathetic pangs he's prone to, because besides the fact he's pissed they just found Dad and lost him all over again in a matter of MINUTES, his own face is very much on FIRE. He twists and reaches over the bench seat, awkwardly and cautiously pawing through loose clothing and assorted weaponry, fingers wary of unseen and unsheathed sharp edges and searching for the smooth surface of the first aid kit. He frowns, finding only empty soda bottles and shirts and jeans stiff with dried blood that haven't made the trip to the laundromat yet. "Hey, pull over a sec."

Dean doesn't respond, might have actually found it in himself to press even harder on the accelerator. The needle is shaking. Sam sighs. "Dean, I can't find the – just pull over for a friggin' minute. I'm not gonna ditch you and go after Dad."

The faster she moves the harder she is to control, and the car hits a pothole Dean either couldn't avoid or couldn't see, throws them both off of the seat. Dean hisses and follows it up immediately with an uncharacteristic whimper as he bumps into the door, and Sam's fingers feel out the blue plastic case when he comes back down. "Got it." He grips the handle and wrestles out the kit from within a mountain of unwashed clothes.

He sits back, pulling the case onto this lap. Sam shoots a glance at Dean, white-faced where his skin isn't sickeningly claw-split, and silent. He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly he might just be twisting it into an entirely new shape. "What's up?"

"Hmm?" Sound comes from his brother and a muscle visibly jumps in his jaw, but his lips don't budge from a thin, white line.

"Dean, you think any harder over there, you're gonna give yourself an aneurism." Sam pops the lid and drags an antiseptic wipe from the open and near-empty pack, steels himself and wads the medicated sheet against the sharpest source of pain in his face, right in the meat of his cheek. _Hel-lo._

Dean blinks heavily, swipes at his eyes and his hand comes away bloody. After a glance around the interior of the car and determining there's no better option without having to ask Sam for something, he wipes his palm down the thigh of his jeans and returns his hand to the wheel. He shakes his head like he's got water in his ears instead of blood, keeps his eyes trained on the road. "I dunno, something's just buggin' me that I can't really put my finger on."

Sam snorts, giving his thoughts a voice as he continues to lose the battle with his pain. "Is it how easily you went right back into asking 'how high?' as soon as you were standing next to Dad?"

Dean turns to look at Sam for the first time since they dropped into the car. His eyes are bright with more than one kind of hurt, and Sam almost feels bad about letting that little dig slide out his mouth. "Really, Sammy? You wanna talk about what we turn into when we're around Dad?"

Sam sighs and shakes his head. It doesn't matter how right he might feel he is, Dean will never be on his side in this argument, or any that involve Dad. He balls up the bloody wipe and tosses it to the floorboards. He drags another from the now empty pack in his lap and holds it out to his brother, because he isn't likely to find an actual olive branch in the car. "Last one."

Dean jerks his head, winces at the motion. "I'm okay."

"Dean, will you just take the damn thing, you're bleeding all over the place. We should really stop."

"Can't stop. We haven't gone far enough yet."

"How're you gonna know when we're far enough?"

"I just will, Sam."

"Sure." The medicated sting in his cheek is receding, and Sam rotates his arm to study the cuts in his jacket sleeve. The edges are bloodstained and still damp but when he presses his fingers to the gashes beneath the layers of slashed fabric he feels out patches of dried blood, and nothing fresh. _That's something, at least._ "So what's bugging you?"

"There was just something, I don't know. Something kinda familiar about your girlfriend."

"Could you not – " He sighs, because if Dean is in enough pain to both not ask about the injuries Sam's making such a show out of RIGHT NEXT TO HIM, AND not see fit to withhold what he's thinking, they might just be in trouble here. He figures as long as can keep Dean talking, things can't really be too bad. "What, like you've seen her before this week?"

"No, I'd never seen her before you spotted her in that bar, and it wasn't even then that's got me thinkin.' There was just…something tonight about the way she was, something reminded me…" Dean drags his hand down his face, grimaces as he wipes away another palm full of blood and disposes of that on his jeans, as well. "Jesus, Sammy, I don't even know."

Sam frowns, leans forward and back on the seat, attempting to use the passing glow of the streetlights whizzing past the car at near-light speed to identify all of the places from which his brother is bleeding. "You hit your head?"

Dean grins tightly, wearily, drawing premature lines at the corners of his tired eyes. "No more than usual."

"So what're you…"

"I dunno, Sammy. It's nothin.' Just forget I said anything."

"You don't get like this over nothing, Dean."

"I'm not gettin' like anything, Sam. I'm just driving." He readjusts his white-knuckled grip on the wheel and shifts on the bench. A fairly large dark spot on his jacket glistens in a passing light, under his armpit.

Leakin' like a sieve, and God forbid the stubborn bastard should say anything about it. Sam swallows. "Not anymore, you're not. I am, and you're putting pressure on that. Pull over."

Dean realizes his mistake and glances down at his side, looks over to his brother with wide, imploring eyes that seem to glow in contrast to the dark blood covering most of his face. "Sammy. I can get to…I can make. Don't make me stop right now, okay?"

Sam relents after as long a staring match they can have while one of them is driving and nods. Dean returns his attention deliberately to the road, even slows the speed at which the Impala is hurtling down the highway to something more resembling both safe and legal. He stares at the damp spot on Dean's jacket and puts his big, educated brain to use running calculations, and doesn't like the results he comes up with. He threatens in a tone he very rarely takes with his brother, "But either you pull over in one hour or I'M pulling you over, Dean. I mean it."

"Okay. I get it."

"You sure you aren't remembering something worth talking about?"

"Yeah, Sam. I'm sure." Dean chuckles, sounding just as unamused and tired as Sam feels, himself. He taps the side of his head. "Been a long day. Just a little fried up here."

Sam sighs, tucks the wipe away into the case for Dean to use later and folds the kit shut. "Same shit, different day, huh."

"You're tellin' me."

"When d'you think we're gonna see Dad again?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "When it's safe, Sam, when he can. We'll see 'im when he can."

Sam finds himself once again staring at the bloody stain on his brother's coat, shoots a glance down at his watch. "I'm not kidding around, Dean. I'm pulling this car off the road in fifty-eight minutes. And I'm gonna talk your friggin' ear off til then."

"Countin' on it."


End file.
